the escape’s on this cove’s curve
unhurried
to tremor of you in a bird’s wings
flanking itself all the colours of singing ‘some cove’
we get down to the part where
narrative happens favourite museums
in open spaces closer now
for observing the offices daily
this is not god
but  ‘things happen’ earthy and oily
and warm to the touch of a tongue
inhabiting calm at the end of a story
before it continues
the frost that chalked up
winter is no more real now than water
in the flow of Bedouin robes
‘The Alexandria Quartet’
we take turns to supply the present
tense of summer long days flex
and draw their pictures in the sand
painting the sea with white paper